


The President's Flowers

by JenKristo



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: M/M, president morty - Freeform, takes place in the Citadel of Ricks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-04-17 15:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14192490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenKristo/pseuds/JenKristo
Summary: **On hiatus indefinitely.** President Morty is temporarily paralyzed after another assassination attempt is made on his life. He becomes enamored with his caretaker, a local Citadel florist from J19-zeta-7.





	1. Chapter 1

When the President’s assistant came into the bedroom, he found President Morty sprawled out on his bed, surrounded by prostitutes and wearing nothing but an unbuttoned shirt and a loose tie. A Rick in a thong was licking Morty’s dick like candy, another holding a small mirror up to the President, from which he snorted a line of k-lax. The rest of the company was lounging around on the bed, touching each other or sleeping, sequins and glitter stuck to their skin.  

“Excuse me, Mr. President? Your visit to the Citadel Market is scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes.”

The President looked at him with wide, blue-tinted eyes. “Excellent. Get out.”

The assistant Rick turned tail and shut the door, and waited for only a few minutes. Morty came out of his room wearing a slim fitted suit, his hair combed back neatly. He straightened his tie and leaned his head back, taking eye drops. He sniffled and glanced at the assistant. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

* * *

The Citadel Market seemed to have a life of its own. It sat on the edge of the ‘good’ part of town, where middle class Ricks and sometimes Mortys would shop. There were booths and open-front tents where items were sold. There were shops with clothes, racks of sunglasses, shoes, and jewelry for the more outlandish-styled Ricks. There were hats and messenger bags, keychains and more.

Morty smiled and waved from between his set of four bodyguards, comfortable knowing that there were more disguised as civilians in the near distance. Shoppers leaned in for his attention, the shopkeepers beaming as they waited with their wares. Morty shooed back his guards to shake hands with merchants, a contrived act of trust in the community. 

Morty pointed to an item here and there for his assistant to purchase on his behalf. He stopped at a booth of ties and bought a red one identical to the one he was wearing. A few shops down he purchased a loaf of sesame bread from a stand of baked goods, having his assistant pay and take the bag. He shook hands with the owner, smiling at his official photographer. He visited with the owners of a videogame booth and a booth selling disco balls, and tasted samples at a ‘spice and herb’ tent.

The truth was, the Citadel Market was doing pretty well, selling some things that citizens needed, and selling even more merchandise that they believed would fill some kind of void. Either way, Morty’s visit to a humble market would be good publicity. 

Ahead, Morty spotted a double-wide booth on the right. A tall tent stood there, a row of hanging plants lined along the top of the tent beam. Below were tables that stuck into the street, where small, potted succulents and flowers were arranged. Inside were racks of vegetables, large carrots and potatoes, bell peppers and fruit.  Morty could feel the damp mist on his skin from watering hoses. But most of all, it was the smell that attracted him. It smelled of roses and damp ground. 

A nervous-looking Rick with a bowl-cut popped his head out from between two spider plants. He stepped into view, standing awkwardly as he waited. He had a terrible squint, and crooked teeth inside a nervous smile. Morty leaned in to his photographer, speaking softly.

“Take plenty of pictures of me with that ugly Rick. Make sure to get the plants in the shot. We can write an article that segways into Citadel agriculture.”

The photographer nodded, following along with the rest of the crowd as Morty approached the shop owner. 

“What a beautiful shop you have,” Morty said. 

“Oh gosh, th-thank you, Mr. President!” 

“It’s good to meet another merchant,” Morty said, shaking his hand while smiling at the cameraman. 

“A-A-And it’s good to meet you too, Mr. President! I wrote down your election speech and pinned it to my wall at home. I often re-read it and it gives me hope.”

“That’s excellent,” Morty said, eyes trained on the next booth. 

“B-Before you go, I hope you’ll accept something I made for you.”

Morty glanced back at the ugly Rick, who was hurrying to a back table and reaching behind it. Two of Morty’s guards stepped forward, ready to pull their guns out from inside their suits. But the Rick reappeared with a clear plastic container, which he opened to reveal a boutonniere. 

Morty looked down at the small plant held in the Rick’s hands. It was a brilliant, crimson flower and a green stem that tapered off into a spiral at the bottom. Glossy cranberries surrounded the flower, along with rough-edged leaves. 

“It’s a ranunculus, Mr. President. I always see you wearing red on TV, and so I-I thought it might be fitting.”

Morty touched the velvety petals, his face unreadable. He received gifts frequently, but most only expressed something of the Rick or Morty who gave it. This… this showcased the florist’s talents, but it  _ represented _ Morty. This would not have fit anyone else. 

“Would you pin it to me?” 

Flustered, the Rick nodding quickly. He took up the boutonniere, pinning it to the front of Morty’s suit. In close contact, the ugly Rick carried the scents of earth and moss, a vast difference from the urban smells of the Citadel. 

Morty glanced down at the boutonniere. It was perfect. 

And then a shot rang out. A second red flower bloomed from Morty’s chest, blood splattering over the Rick’s face. People began to scream, and Morty’s team moved into action, firing back at the attacker. In shock, Morty fell to his knees, his body strangely frozen. 

“I can’t feel…” Morty mumbled. 

The ugly Rick began to call for help, reaching for Morty and easing him gently onto the ground. Morty looked down at the blood pouring from the hole in his chest, and at the florist’s subsequent hand flattening over it. 

“We need to move him somewhere more secure,” one of the bodyguards said, hurrying toward them. 

“N-No, he can’t be moved without a stretcher. I-I-I think his back was-”

The bodyguard ignored the other Rick, grabbing Morty under the arms and dragging him backward. Morty choked, pain exploding in his spine. There was no room for him to speak through the agony of it, until he finally blacked out. 


	2. Chapter 2

Morty watched from the hospital bed as the surgeon Ricks discussed his options. The room was packed with bodyguards and nurse Mortys, officials, assistants, hospital staff. Morty continued to test his limits, to attempt to move his arms and legs, even just the tips of his toes. But there was nothing. It was the feeling of being trapped in concrete, every muscle straining against an immovable force. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face, the only indication of his efforts.

“We believe your best bet for combatting the paralysis is to undergo a spinal procedure to connect you to a suit of bio armor.”

Morty didn’t smile as he said, “...Like Robocop?” 

“Well yes,” one of the surgeons said. 

The other rolled out a stand, where stood a metal structure somewhat like an exoskeleton.

“You’d have a second, titanium spinal column on the outside of your body, which would be attached to your natural spine. Wires would connect your nerves to the metal arm and leg armor, which would-”

Morty stopped listening as color and movement caught his eye. He glanced the other way as a pair of bodyguards stepped aside. Out came the florist from the Citadel Market, carrying a tall bouquet. Morty watched as the Rick set them on a nearby table, arranging the flowers in the vase until he was satisfied. The Rick turned around, listening to the surgeons with mild interest.

“You’d be up in a matter of days,” the surgeon said. 

The florist turned away, shaking his head. Morty wasn’t sure why that rubbed him the wrong way. “If you have something to say, then say it,” Morty called out to the Rick.

The Rick blinked, his stupid eyes unable to come together. “Oh w-well I was just on my way out.” But upon seeing that the room was watching him, the Rick seemed to realize that he had to speak. Shrinking, he said, “Well… y-y-y-you might not want to go with the bio armor, Mr. President.”

“Why’s that?”

The Rick stepped forward, fingers laced nervously. “It’s just that m-most people who are fitted with bio armor are n-never able to heal naturally. The surgery to connect the artificial spine to your own will paralyze you irreparably.”

“What do you mean, irreparably?” Morty said, biting out the words. “I’m already paralyzed irreparably.”

“Oh I beg your pardon, but you’re probably not, Mr. President! Modern Citadel medicine is more than capable of healing most spinal damage, even a spine that’s been completely severed. It just takes time.”

“What qualifies you to offer this insight?”

“Uhh… w-w-well you see I was a medical researcher on Earth J19-zeta7 before I moved to the Citadel. I decided to retire from it after I cured cancer.”

Morty stared for a moment before turning to the pair of surgeons. “Is what he’s saying about me true?”

The surgeons looked at one another before facing him. “Well yes, but it’ll take months for you to heal. It would be painful and you’d need tremendous amounts of physical therapy. Do you really want to wait that long?”

Morty wished he could move so he could put a bullet in this idiot’s brain. “You know I’m not sure. But I WOULD HAVE LIKED TO HEAR ABOUT THE FUCKING OPTION!” Morty’s face was red with anger, and he ignored the pain sprouting from between his shoulder blades. “I bet it would be great for you, having the Citadel President reliant on you two fucks for the rest of his life! I can see it, constant adjustments and updates to that fucking metal piece of garbage!”

“Mr. President,” one of the surgeon Ricks pleaded, “How can you trust some random Rick over us?”

“Because I didn’t pay him to say that.”

Morty took a deep breath and let it out. He glanced over at his assistant, who hurried forward. Morty spoke quietly into his ear. “Find me a competent surgeon and blow these two out of the airlock.” 

* * *

The Platinum Tower was where most of the Citadel President’s business was conducted. There were offices and meeting halls, confidential libraries and databases, and a weapons program. There was also a dining hall and a cafe, as well as a small medical center for emergencies.

The top few floors were meant as the President’s personal quarters. At the very top was his bedroom, bath and living room. The living room had been temporarily reconfigured into a private, physical therapy center. 

Morty sat in his powered wheelchair, staring blankly at the equipment. It was difficult to believe there was a chance for him to move again. Even after they’d found a competent surgeon and had a corrective procedure performed on his spine, he was completely void of movement or feeling below his shoulders. A sensor attached to Morty’s ear allowed the chair to move according to his mental choice, but he was still getting the hang of it. 

Morty heard the door open behind him, and the sound of footfalls. He willed the chair to move, and it jerked around sharply. He would have braced himself if he’d been able to do that much. Turning, he found his assistant Rick approaching with a Morty. The Morty wore a black suit and a red tie, with his hair combed back neatly. 

“They call this one, ‘Monologue Morty,’ the best in his acting school. How’s he look, Mr. President?” the assistant asked.

Morty looked at the actor, who was like a clone of himself. “Well? Did you memorize my next speech?”

The new Morty straightened up. “Citizens, as you can see, adversity to progress is nothing but a small hiccup in the big picture. Those who will try to divide us will try to bring me down, to bring us down. But as long as we stand together, we will overcome them-”

“Good,” Morty said, cutting him off. “Just keep your earpiece activated during meetings and I will feed you the lines.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” the actor said, bowing respectfully. 

Assistant Rick dismissed him and spoke into his radio. He turned to Morty. “I’m having the first applicant set up.”

“For what?”

“For the position of your caretaker and physical therapist. There’s a line of them waiting downstairs.”

“Ugh.” 

But there was no way to get out of it. His assistant couldn’t perform the necessary caretaker responsibilities, not while orienting the actor. And Morty wasn’t keen on having his assistant tuck him into bed at night anyway.

Morty had moved his chair beside the couch, where his assistant sat holding a clipboard.

“So we’re not going to disclose that you are President Morty until we’ve chosen the candidate,” Assistant Rick said, “That way we’ll lower the chance of the public discovering that Monologue Morty isn’t you.”

“Obviously.”

“If the question arises, our cover for this location is that President Morty has taken you in during your healing process, a friendly, charitable gesture.”

“I like it. Good for publicity.”

Soon the first candidate arrived. It was a Rick in a paisley tie, who shook Assistant Rick’s hand and patted Morty’s. Morty wasn’t keen on that at all.

“Alright, for our first question, why did you decide to apply for this position?”

The Rick cleared his throat. “So I’ve got a blog where I write about-BURP trying new experiences, and I thought my readers would be into this.”

Morty and his assistant looked at one another before Assistant Rick asked, “What about confidentiality?”

The Rick shrugged. “I could just change his name.”

“From what? Morty to Morty?”

The Rick looked stumped. “I could say he was a Rick.”

Assistant Rick’s phone rang. He apologized and stepped away, leaving Morty with the paisley tie. The Rick smiled at him. “So how fast does that go? Can you pop a wheelie?”

Morty glared at him.

The next candidate looked more like a grandpa than any other Rick, with a cardigan sweater and a mostly bald head. 

“Any experience as a Personal Care Assistant?”

“I surely do,” the old Rick said, “I am all about taking care of crippled Mortys. I used to volunteer down at the hospital, but it seems they had too many volunteers to take me anymore. See I just love caring for cripples. When they can’t walk or they can’t move at all, they’re just so sweet and  _ vulnerable _ . I like to be the person they can rely on. I have gentle hands, you see? I can change their clothes, give them baths, apply lotion-”

“That’s great, we’ll be calling you,” the assistant said. 

“Oh, well okay, thank you both!” 

The assistant leaned over to Morty as they watched the candidate leave, and whispered, “Mr. President, I’m pretty sure he planned on... uh...”

“Yes, I agree.”

The rest of the interviews went similarly, each candidate having one or more intolerable flaws. One or two were highly qualified, but Morty found them lacking some personal way or another. As the last candidate was dismissed, Morty blew out a breath. His assistant was scratching his bald spot, at a loss for what to do.

It was then that one of Morty’s guards came through the elevator, carrying a vase of flowers. Morty’s eyes followed the flowers as the guard brought them to a nearby shelf where the others had been set. There were many flowers, even when the populus thought he was well on his way to mending. 

“Where are those from?” Morty asked.

The guard turned back to the flowers, checking the tag. “They’re from the Rick in charge of the textiles district, Mr. President.”

“No, I’m not asking who ordered them.  _ Where _ were they ordered from?”

The guard looked stumped, but Morty’s assistant already had his laptop open. “There’s only one place to order flowers in the Citadel, Mr. President. It’s from that Rick you met in the Market.”

* * *

The Rick he met in the Market turned out to be from a dimension called J19-zeta-7. Morty realized then that the Rick had actually said so back at the hospital, but Morty hadn’t been paying attention. Morty had his guards pick him up right away, and brought directly to the Platinum Tower.

He stepped out of the elevator with a guard on his heel, looking more out of place than one ever could.  The Rick wore loose gardening clothes, his fingers dark around the nails and a smudge of dirt on his cheek. His eyes lit up when he saw Morty.

“M-Mr. President!” he said, taking a few steps forward. “I-I-I hope you’re feeling alright.”

Morty was sitting at the end of a long table. “I could be better, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Zeta-7 nodded. “What can I help y-you with, Sir?”

“Well I wanted to talk with you about it, but I’m famished. Would you join me for lunch?”

Rick looked at the table, seeing that there was a place setting made up in front of Morty, and another at the seat to his left. 

“Gosh, well I… I’m not r-really dressed right, and-”

“That’s my fault,” Morty cut in. “I was in a big hurry to get you here. I really don’t mind as long as we get to eat soon.” Morty flashed him a fake smile. 

Rick watched him wearily and then nodded. “O-Okay, I’ll just wash my hands then.” The Rick spotted Morty’s kitchen in the adjoining room, and went to it. Morty watched him roll up his sleeves, scrubbing with dish soap all the way up to his elbows. He looked like a doctor preparing for surgery, and Morty remembered that he had once been involved in medicine.

“I ordered soup and sandwiches,” Morty said when he returned. 

Rick took a seat just as a server arrived with a tray. He set down sandwiches and bowls of soup in front of them, announcing what they were. “Tomato basil soup, and grilled cheese paninis with mushrooms and roasted red peppers.”

The server left and Morty turned to Rick. “I had the tomatoes, mushrooms and peppers ordered from your shop. Please, tell me what you think.”

Rick beamed at the news, and lifted half of his cut sandwich to take a bite. “Mm!” he murmured through a mouthful, pausing as he looked back at Morty. He chewed and spoke softly. “Mr. President, how are -yyou… uhm..”

Morty feigned surprise. “Oh, I didn’t even think of that.”

“Could I get someone for you, Sir?”

Morty frowned. “Well I did want to talk to you in private. Do you think you could help me out?”

“Of course, Sir. Should I do it any certain way? I’ve n-n-never done this before.”

“Whatever works.”

“O-Okay.” Rick pulled his chair closer and took up Morty’s sandwich, lifting it to his mouth. Morty leaned forward with what little neck movement he had and took a bite. A red pepper pulled out of the sandwich and hung from his lips, and the Rick used his finger to help him eat it. It was such an easy motion that Morty felt as if it could have been his own hand. And for the brief moment that the Rick’s finger had touched his lips, Morty felt… fine. 

He studied the Rick, who was blinking and watching Morty expectantly. For what, Morty didn’t know. Approval? He chewed and said, “You should eat too.”

“Right,” Rick said, trying his soup. It went on this way for a while, Morty taking bigger bites when he realized that he actually was hungry. Since the injury he’d been fed by other Ricks several times before, but this was the first time he was fed by someone who didn’t seem bored or put off by the process. 

Halfway through, Rick asked, “S-So what was it you wanted to ask me about, Mr. President?”

Morty let Rick wipe his mouth with a cloth napkin before speaking. “I wanted to ask if you’ve done this before, but you already said that you haven’t. See, I’m looking to hire a personal care assistant, and you have experience in health care.”

Rick’s eyes widened. “Oh but I worked in a lab most of the time. I’ve n-n-n-never worked in personal care.”

“I guess it would be a step down for you.”

“No! N-No, I just don’t really know what to do.”

“Well you seem personal and caring, isn’t that enough? You’d be paid very well.”

The Rick chuckled nervously. “Mr. President, I’m r-r-really not qualified. And I have my business to look after. If I stopped working my plants could die.” 

Morty studied him. “I can’t tell if you’re being coy or if you’re really refusing the job.”

Rick shook his head. “I would n-never be coy, Mr. President.”

They stared at one another, and Morty found his patience finally beginning to wane. “You’ll be paid twice whatever you’re making at your current business.”

Rick looked down at his plate. “I-I-It took years to cultivate some of those plants. And m-my garden team is counting on me.”

Gritting his teeth, Morty willed himself to calm down. It wasn’t so much about not having this Rick as it was being  _ refused _ by him. “We can hire someone, or however many someones you need to replace you while you’re away.”

Rick stood from his seat and took a step back. He looked nerve-wracked, fingers entwined together. “I-I-I’m so sorry Mr. President, but I’m j-just not a good fit for you I should probably go.” 

He began to leave, but paused when Morty called out, “You probably shouldn’t.” He continued with all pretenses dropped. “It would be an incredible shame if your cultivation permit was suddenly revoked, or if your property was reclaimed for new urban infrastructure. I know it’s not easy to find a place to grow in the Citadel.”

The Rick spoke with his back to Morty. “I knew there was something off about your smile, and I was right. Y-Y-You’re a bully.” He turned back to Morty, eyes glassy. “But it sounds like I’ll lose my garden either way. I can work here while it falls apart, or work at home until you take it away from me. If those are my choices, I’d prefer to take the latter. Goodbye, Mr. President.”

Morty could only gape as the Rick from J19-zeta-7 left. He remained where he was until his assistant returned, his brow quirked. 

“I take it things didn’t go so well?” 

Morty glared. “Shut your fucking mouth and help me finish my sandwich.” 


	3. Chapter 3

“Why are we visiting the ranch, again, Mr. President?” Morty’s assistant Rick asked as he drove them down a long, gravel road. Morty stared out the window, watching as the mega fruit trees passed by. They’d already passed the mega fruit farmhouse, where they’d had to ask a grouchy farmer Rick for directions. 

“Because I want to see exactly what I’m about to take down,” Morty said. That ugly Rick wasn’t going to slight him without consequence. “I want to nail it into his thick skull that his home isn’t safe anymore.”

They drove past a cluster of trees until they saw a farmhouse and a pair of long greenhouses. The car pulled into a larger graveled area, parking beside a dusty truck. The truck had a business logo painted on the side, which read, ‘Zeta-7 Flowers’. 

The assistant got out and went around, setting up Morty’s chair and pulling him out of the car. Morty hated this, being hauled around like a limp doll. If he could tense he would have, but he was only able to grit his teeth as the assistant set him down in the chair and buckled him in. 

“Go knock,” Morty said. He watched as his assistant went up the three steps to the porch, and knocked on the door. They waited for a moment, but no one answered. 

“Maybe he’s out,” the assistant offered.

“There’s a truck here,” Morty countered.

They both turned at the sound of voices coming from the closest greenhouse. Morty rotated his chair, which shook as it moved over the expansive gravel. Closer, there were definitely Morty voices. Morty felt a twinge of irritation as his assistant stood behind him, as if he were ready to grab the handles and push Morty forward at any moment. 

“Stay here, I don’t need you hovering,” Morty said, needing a break from it. 

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Morty rolled across the parking area and went inside, and was surprised to find noone. The greenhouse was made up of two rows and a path between them, various types of flowers growing on the long tables on either side. It was warm and humid, although he could only really feel it on his face. and Morty looked around with a scrutinizing expression. 

Morty reached the end, where stood a trio of especially large potted plants. There was a side door which Morty started toward, but stopped short when he heard a giggle. He looked at the large plants, tilting his head to see who might be hiding behind them.

“If there’s a Morty here, I suggest you come out.”

An eerie, Morty-like voice came from the direction of the plants. “There’s no coming out when you live in a pot,” the voice said, followed by a chorus of airy laughter. Morty watched as eyes opened at the heads of the plants. The first and smallest watched him with sickly, narrowed eyes. The second consisted of three red flowers the size of dinner plates, each with a pair of eyes and mouths he hadn’t noticed before. The third plant, largest and most sinister, was a thorny, venus flytrap-looking Morty with another trio of heads.

Morty had enough of the freak show. “Where is your Rick?” he demanded of the plants. “Zeta-7?” 

The small, sad-looking plant spoke softly. “Wh-Where is anything outside of the garden? We w-w-wouldn’t know.” 

“Wonderful,” Morty said, leaving through the back door. 

He passed through the narrow, grassy space between buildings until he entered the second greenhouse. Sunshine from the transparent roof sliced through hundreds of hanging flowers, the light glittering over an artificial pond. Tall grasses protruded from areas of the long tank, while the rest of the water was dotted with lily pads and pale flowers. There didn’t seem to be anyone here, and Morty would rather speak to a yellow shirt than stay long enough to run into another leafy monstrosity. 

As Morty rolled into the third greenhouse, he began to hear the sound of laughter. This greenhouse was not flowers but edibles, with squash and tomatoes hanging from the ceiling and a dozen others growing from below. There were two Mortys busy picking ripe vegetables, although they both paused when they caught sight of him. 

What appeared to be conjoined twins, a Morty with a smaller Morty growing out of his torso, were picking strawberries together.  Another Morty, one with a litter of scars over his face and arms, looked up from where he was digging potatoes out of a raised bed. The boy had a bald patch on the side of his head, and one of his eyes was milky white. 

The scruffy-looking Morty turned to the front entrance, indelicately screaming, “Daisy!”

A moment later a third Morty appeared in the front entrance of the greenhouse. “W-What is it?” The boy hurried forward, slowing as he noticed President Morty in the rear-side entrance. The third Morty was entirely typical-looking, save for a white flower growing out of his head. “Oh, hello. You must be a new Morty! Rick didn’t tell us anyone was coming. I’m Daisy.”  

“Where is your Rick?” Morty asked, his patience gone. “Where is Zeta-7?”

“Showering, I think,” Daisy said. “He should be back soon. His face shifted into a smile, and he turned to the others. They all started to laugh, sharing some kind of private joke. 

Daisy turned back to him. “I saw a fancy car out there and some Rick in a suit. Is that your Rick?”

“He’s my  _ assistant _ ,” Morty corrected, ignoring the Double Morty muttering to each other with amusement. 

They all turned when they heard a door slam in the distance. The laughing continued and then they quickly grew silent. Zeta-7 Rick stepped into the front entrance, wearing a loose blue shirt and a pair of cut-off jean shorts. Morty’s mouth fell open as Rick stalked inside, red-faced. He didn’t seem to notice Morty at all as he confronted the other three. 

“W-W-W-Which one of you did this?” He tugged on the obscenely high edge of the shorts, which were crudely cut with scissors. “Was it you, Daisy? I-I-I thought I smelled flowers in my room.”

“N-No! I would never!” Daisy shrieked. But the smaller head on Double Morty sputtered out a laugh, slapping one of their shared legs. The boys all devolved into laughter, and a small smile crossed Rick’s face even with his arms crossed. 

“I hope y-y-you didn’t ruin  _ all  _ of my pants. I noticed that they were all missing!”

“I put them under your bed,” Daisy finally confessed, grinning. Seemingly trying to change the subject, he pointed to where Morty stood in the back entrance. “Look who showed up. You didn’t tell us we had someone new coming.”

Zeta-7 turned, his smile falling when he caught sight of the President. Morty rolled his chair inside, turning it to face Rick. He watched the Rick’s chest rise and fall, expression riddled with contempt. 

“You can’t possibly be surprised to see me,” Morty said. 

Zeta-7 glanced worriedly at the boys around him, back at Morty, and then turned on his heel and stalked out the way he came.

“Hey, don’t walk away when I’m speaking to you!” Morty shouted. He followed after Rick, watching the man’s rigid posture, arms brushing against plant leaves as he went, hips stiff in the cut-off jeans. 

“Stop!” Morty shouted, and was still ignored. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had defied him so disrespectfully. 

He followed the Rick outside, nearly crashing into him when Rick stopped short and turned around again. “I-I-If you’re not here to shut me down for s-some made-up infraction, then j-just leave me alone. I’m not going to work for you in that s-suffocating tower.”

“Because of your little harem of Mortys,” Morty said. “I didn’t peg you for a collector.”

The Rick looked utterly affronted. “A collector?! N-No!”

“ _ Y-Y-Yes _ ,” Morty said, mocking his stutter. “That’s why you can’t leave this place to work for me, you can’t give up your little followers. This was never about some worthless plants, was it?” 

“Yes, it is! I-I-I-It’s about me, it’s about the boys in there, a-a-a-and it’s about the business that lets us be together! The business pays for us to live, and the work keeps us together. You can’t…” The Rick’s eyes began to water as he glanced up at the greenhouse and then back to Morty. He took a few steps closer, bending to his knees so that he could talk to Morty at his level. The Rick spoke softly, so that any curious ears in the greenhouse wouldn’t overhear. “You can’t do this to them. Without the farm they’ll have n-n-n-nowhere to go. They’ll end up back in Mortytown, o-o-or in the hands of those trainers!” His voice was shaky, pleading. “Why do you want me? Is it because I refused? I-I-Is this about winning? If it is, then you’ve won! I-I’ll do anything else, anything to keep them together, to keep the farm. Please don’t, please…”

Morty watched him with a deadpan expression. He’d had enough sorry, sack-of-shit-Ricks begging and pleading for mercy to fill up a lifetime. And still, the Rick was right about one thing, this had turned into a need for Morty to win. And seeing a Rick pleading on his knees had always given Morty a sense of resounding satisfaction. He thought about the other demands he might make on the Rick if he were at full health. Even an ugly Rick would be a pleasure to humiliate, if only for the purpose of seeing them degraded. Or maybe it was just the cut-off jeans. 

Morty thought for a moment longer and said, “You’re going to be assisting me while I’m recovering. There’s no getting out of that. But you’re not going to lose your farm or your little collection of boys. I can’t have the public seeing me like this to begin with, so I might as well be in some far-off patch of dirt on the edge of the Citadel.”

Zeta-7 blinked. “W-What do you mean? Y-You’ll be-”

“Here. Yes.” Morty thought. “And don’t tell the boys who I am. I’m sure they can’t be trusted to keep their mouths shut. Understood?”

The Rick didn’t really look like he understood, or perhaps he was in a haze of shock. 

“Wake up. Snap Snap,” Morty said. Getting Zeta-7’s attention again, he said, “I’m going to stay here during recovery. You’ll do what I need, assist me, perform my therapy, and what extra time you have you can oversee the other Mortys and your business. You can tell them that I’m just the same as them, some wayward Morty without a place in the world. Is that understood?”

The Rick’s lower lip quivered as he nodded submissively. Morty raised his chin, feeling satisfied. “Now, we’re going to need to build a ramp over your porch stairs.”

tbc


End file.
